


An Oral Contract

by FeyduBois



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, oral sex for favors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:12:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2426648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeyduBois/pseuds/FeyduBois
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pickles takes a page out of Toki Wartooth's book. Oral contracts and whispered conversations in closets ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Oral Contract

**Author's Note:**

> Done in 2008 as a gift in the Hearts and Guts gift exchange on LiveJournal. Must I warn for character death if it's Klokateers or substance abuse if it's Pickles? If so I warn you, that happens. And swear words. Seriously, I ought to have my keyboard scrubbed with soap.

Pickles regarded the drum kit, taking another drag off the cigarette in his mouth. It was twenty minutes before he had to go on stage so booze and weed had been replaced with caffeine and tobacco. He coughed harshly and wheezed, receiving a look from Charles that suggested intense disapproval. Unlike Charles however, Pickles wasn't zen enough to subsist off matcha and air; he needed something stronger than that to get going, and he needed something stronger still before he'd sober up enough to be able to assemble his fucking drum kit.

"Well?" Charles asked, "Aren't you going to assemble your drums?"

"Dood, whenever I get out here it's already set up for me."

There had been an accident on the road and Klokateers 143, 98, and 204 had been lost forevermore. Their techie, number 187, was still on board, and he'd managed to single-handedly set up all the equipment (literally); however he was presently preoccupied with a pre-sound check, so Pickles' drum kit remained on the floor in various parts and pieces.

"Well, yes, but we're a little short staffed at the moment."

"Can't he do it?" Pickles pointed to number 187.

"Show him your arm," Charles suggested to the roadie who obediently held up his right arm, a mess of bandages covering charred flesh with blood seeping through.

Pickles grimaced a bit.

"That happened during the accident which claimed the instrument experts. Even so, I'm not sure 187 knows how to set up your drums... his expertise is more in the soundboard." Actually, 187 wasn't really supposed to be working at all according to the medic, but Dethklok's Klokateers were, if nothing else, hopelessly loyal.

"I don't know how ta do this!" Pickles exclaimed, gesturing wildly and accidentally stepping on a cymbal. It skid with a clatter to the edge of the stage and 187 headed towards it, but he was still woozy from the pain medication and following that stumbled over the edge of the stage. His tumble was followed by the cymbal falling on top of him, the golden disc whirling down and impacting with a wet sound.

Pickles and Charles glanced over the edge. The cymbal had effectively just beheaded Pickles' "aw, he's fine" argument. Charles pressed a button on his cell phone and said, "Corpse clean up please, he's just in front of the stage."

"So..." after a few long moments they turned back to the drum kit.

"Pickles?"

"Mmn?" He was attempting to sneak a bit of Bailey's into his paper coffee cup without Charles noticing. He thought he was being covert, Charles assumed he was being cocky by doing it in plain sight in strange, dramatic, motions.

"You're a musician, correct?"

"Yah, I guess."

"You play the drums, correct?"

"That's my beat now, yah. Get it? Beat?" Pickles thought this pun was terrific.

"Why do you not know how to set up a drum kit?"

Pickles shrugged, "Dunno'."

It was so frustrating that Charles wanted to throttle him... or pin him down and screw him senseless – loathe though he was to admit it, he had a thing for cocky men.

"Didn't you ever have to set it up before practice?"

"Naw, we gawt someone else ta' do it an' then just kinda' left it there."

"And at concerts?"

"Gawt roadies ta' do it."

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a hard time believing that Pickles the Drummer of Dethklok, the greatest metal band of all time, formerly the lead singer slash guitarist of Snakes n' Barrels, was unable to set up his own drum kit; the idea was preposterous. And yet here was Pickles himself telling him he didn't know how.

"Pickles, listen, let's be reasonable..."

"Ah'll give ya a blowjob if ya set it up fer me."

"I want you to be... uh... a what?"

"A blow job. Y'know... oral sex, head, fellatio."

"I think that's—"

"What? Ya think that'd be gross? Nasty? Gay?" Pickles got right up in Charles face, undressing him from that pricey, drab grey suit with his eyes. Pickles had seen Charles outside of that suit. He'd seen him in the Mordhaus gym working with various trainers... Charles practised a number of martial arts as well as meditation, yoga, and a couple of dance styles. Pickles had a feeling the guy could perform fucking auto-fellatio, but it was always nicer to have someone else doing something for you even when you could do it yourself. Like setting up a drum kit.

"No, no, just... it would be unprofessional." Aha, there it was. A tiny blush crept up into Charles' face, barely noticeable, but he was obviously getting awkward with this conversation. Nervous. Good.

"I wouldn't mind. We could draw up a contract if ya want, though I don't think we've gawt enough time fer that so a verbal contract might work best."

A verbal contract for an oral act, how fitting.

"Ah, I don't think that's... not here, someone will walk up to us I think."

"Awright, awright. We'll go to the green room."

"No time, we need to get set up for the show. And Pickles, this still seems like a bad idea..."

"What, ya' don' want a blowjob? What kinda' man doesn' want head?"

"Seriously now Pickles."

"If ye're worried about me not bein' good at it, well, I can reassure ya' that ah'm very experienced." Pickles wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Charles looked unconvinced, "That's the worst pick-up line I've ever heard."

"No, it's nawt."

Charles sighed, "Anyway though, we're not going to... uh... yeah... you know, however, you do need to set up your drum kit now."

"If I said you had a gorgeous body would you hold it against me?"

Charles blinked.

"Are ya' from Tennessee? 'Cause ye're the only ten I see."

"Knock it off."

"Excuse me, can I borrow a quarter? S'an emergency; my mam told me ta give her a call the first time I fell in love."

"Pickles," Charles used his best firm voice, "we need to get to work here."

"We don't need ta do anything at all. Wanna' go behind a rock and get a little boulder?"

Charles knew he should be used to the band's antics by now, but this was a new one. He checked his watch and pondered... they still had a few minutes. The steel curtains concealing the stage from the audience were closed tightly, but the skeleton crew remaining and the rest of the band were apt to stumble upon them.

"Alright Pickles," two could play that game, "let's play chess. You turn off the light and I'll make the first move."

Pickles' mouth fell open and he couldn't hide the shock, not only was Charles assenting, but he was also returning the terrible pick-up lines. What was he supposed to do now? He had intended to just keep going until Charles got fed up and set up his drum kit, but now he'd have to make good on his promise. He downed the last of his flask, chased it with cold coffee, and knelt in front of Charles. Charles had an unbidden image of himself as a priest delivering communion to a kneeling parishioner in the image his ex-wife wearing her bridal veil, like a little girl at her first communion; an image so at discord with his surroundings that Pickles had taken off his belt before he snapped to attention.

"We can't do this here."

"Ye're right, green room, c'mon." Pickles grabbed him by the wrist.

By 'here' Charles had meant at this point in time, when Pickles was his employer and it it was just before a show and he was thinking of his ex-wife.

Oh God, it had been way too long.

He allowed Pickles to drag him to the green room still; he could have resisted, but he didn't. Charles surrendered.

Too long since the last time I got a...

Pickles dropped Charles into a chair in the green room, but Charles stood up and went into the walk-in closet, explaining, "In case someone else comes in."

They could have just locked the door, but then Nathan pounding on a door while you were trying to perform oral acts was not conductive to said oral acts.

Amongst various costumes and glitzy stage attire, Charles lost his plain jacket and Pickles clumsily undid his button and zipper, kneeling in front of him.

Forgive me father, for I have sinned.

"Uhn..." Charles murmured as Pickles slid his briefs down his ankles to join his bunched up pants. His dress shirt hung awkwardly over where Pickles was kneeling, squeezing his cock gently. He felt the other hand reach up his chest and explore, trailing admiringly over the hardened musculature.

"Damn Afdensen, ye're in really good shape."

"Uh... thanks? I... oooh!"

"'ow's tha'?" Pickles mumbled around his cock.

"That's... quite nice." Charles buried his fingers in the red dreadlocks, too much enjoying his round of fellatio to notice the texture... or the bald spot, or even the beard for that matter, though somewhere in the back of his head he knew he should be making note of those things. "Ah... pleasedon'tstop."

Pickles didn't. He continued for a bit, but not as long as he'd thought he'd have to before Charles murmured, "'m getting close."

"Really?" Pickles asked, pausing for a moment. "How long has it been since..."

Charles looked down, seeing his cock half-out of Pickles' mouth, "Too long."

Father, it's been four years since my last confession.

Pickles got back to it, skilfully working Charles to orgasm (much better at it than his ex-wife), dragging him on and on, nibbling (not too hard or too long) and then sucking hard and (OH! there it was) then pulling hard as Charles (leaning against the wall for support) came into his mouth.

Pickles swallowed, having swallowed many more disgusting things in his life, and then chased it with a swill from a mickey of Bacardi he'd pulled out of... well... somewhere.

Charles panted against the wall.

"Well?" Pickles asked, "Any good?"

Before Charles could respond the green room door flew open and the two had to press further into the closet to avoid being seen. Two recognizable voices reached them.

"Skwisgaars, I thinks we are having to go on stage soon... do we have time?"

"Ah Toki, dere is always time for fuckstime."

Pickles gave Charles a pointed look, but he was too far gone in post-orgasmic haze to do more than widen his eyes a bit.

"I guess so, but if the robotsman comes and sees us."

"Pfft, who cares."

A strange mewling moan arose, probably Toki.

"Do ya think they're..." Pickles whispered.

"I think so, yes... not the first time."

Pickles shook his head, "I always thought..."

The dusty closet was getting to Charles; he sneezed. Scandinavian fuckstime continued, Toki and Skwisgaar not noticing even that amount of noise.

They seemed really preoccupied so Pickles, with a shit-eating grin across his face, said, "I'd say God bless you, but I think he already did."

Charles rolled his eyes. God bless indeed.

"Do you sleep on your belly?" Pickles whispered.

"Uh... no."

"Can I?"

"Skwisgaars?" Toki interrupted, "we need lubes."

"We's fine wit' corpse paints."

Charles winced and made a mental note to talk to them about what could and could not be used as lube – and possibly to buy some... for them of course. "We need to talk," he whispered, "After the show."

"Right, ya' need to set up my drums!"

"Shh!" Charles hissed, Pickles having raised his voice.

"Sawry."

"Did you hears that?" Toki asked.

"Hears what?"

"Neverminds... just... keepsgoings."


End file.
